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It is far too serene for just how hot it is.
It’s an hour past noon, and dust motes dance in golden sunlight streaming in through the open window. The sky is an infinite expanse of blue – deceptively perfect clear weather. Ghost hasn't seen a cloud in what feels like hours.
He’s been in bed since dawn, lured out only by the temptation of a cool shower. Then he was back to laying down, still as a corpse, deeming it far too warm out to do anything else.
He should be doing something else – anything else. Working out, or sparring with someone. The amount of paperwork he has to complete has been piling up, keeps piling up, endless. The list goes on and yet, it is here that he lays, rotting. When the weather cools down, he tells himself, he’ll get it done.
Of course, it’s only after he’s resigned himself to lazing around that someone knocks on the door.
Ghost shuts his eyes and only briefly debates if pretending that he didn’t hear it would be appropriate before he pushes himself up. Grimaces when he feels bedsheets stuck to his skin peeling off like a second layer, tacky from sweat.
Cool air brushes over his back, a brief respite from the awful heat. The bed feels unpleasant under his hands, body-warmed and ever-so-slightly damp. As is his hair when he runs his hand through it, short and cropped as it is.
He throws his legs over the edge of the bed and barely remembers to pull his mask on to the bridge of his nose before he stumbles his way to the door, dazed. It creaks when he pulls it open; he'll have to oil the hinges soon.
Soap stands on the other side, and he looks about as dead as Ghost feels. In his arms are what seems to be half a dozen canned drinks – chilled too, looking at the condensation that covers the outside of their aluminium shells. Ghost shifts and waits for him to speak.
"Ghost," he says, belatedly. Ghost blinks – there's an ice cube in Soap’s mouth. It bulges his cheek when he presses it to the side to speak, slightly muffled. He rolls it to the other side of his mouth when the words stop flowing. Ghost looks away, and resists every urge in his body to clear his throat.
"Let me in; it's too hot outside,” Soap continues, oblivious. Or perhaps he wasn't – it was always hard to tell what Soap feigns and doesn’t. He jerks his head towards his hoard of drinks. “I’ll share them with you.”
In this weather, he can't say no to the godsend of cold drinks even if it means he'll have to keep his mask on, albeit rolled-up, so he pulls the door open a little wider.
"Come in," he says. He winces when he hears his own voice, hoarse from an uncomfortably dry throat, and plucks a can out of Soap’s arms.
Soap wastes no time before he steps around him, gliding into the room. Ghost doesn't know if he should be amused at how Soap treats it like it's his own – there's not an ounce of hesitation in his movements as he walks in, as comfortable here as he is anywhere else.
And then, abruptly, he pauses in the middle of the room, right by Ghost's bed.
The cans clatter noisily to the ground as Soap does, falling to his knees on concrete floors, splaying himself out. Ghost barely has the mind to worry if the other man's fallen victim to heatstroke before Soap groans, low and approving. Heat creeps up his cheeks at the noise; for the first time, it makes him grateful for the weather.
At least he can push the blame onto that.
Ghost follows after him, and ends up sliding to the ground next to his bed, mere inches away from Soap. Slumped over like a wilted flower, he barely manages to hold off on the pleased groan that bubbles up when he feels cold concrete pressed flush against heated flesh. He glances over at Soap, still sprawled across the ground near-lifelessly.
His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and Ghost finds himself copying him. His eyes stray further; the back of Soap's neck glistens temptingly with sweat, pinkened from heat, and Ghost makes himself tear his eyes away. Even goes so far as to tilt his head back against his shitty bed. He pops open the tab warily, and sips at the cool liquid when it doesn't spray out.
Far too sweet and fizzy. He grimaces, yet continues to drink anyway – he's never been a fan of soft drinks, but the temperature makes up for it. By the time he finishes the entire can, Soap has flipped onto his back, arm thrown over his eyes. The ice cube in his mouth has long since melted. His already tight tank top is drenched with sweat, taut against his skin, and it leaves damn-near nothing to the imagination.
He still can't tell if Soap means for all his clothes to be this enticingly tight, or if he simply just can't be bothered to buy new clothes even once he's nearly outgrown them. Either seem plausible when it comes to him, Ghost thinks idly.
His eyes trail down further, over his torso and gym shorts, outlining–
The can creaks in his hands, and he blinks, exhaling harshly as he relaxes his grip. There’s an indent of his fingers left behind, as if mocking Ghost. When he lifts his gaze, he nearly jolts when he meets Soap’s eyes – a question dancing in them. Instead of answering, he grabs a new pair of cans, pressing one to Soap’s cheek and keeping the other for himself.
Hissing at the cold metal against his skin, Soap pushes himself up to sit upright, slow and languid. Cat-like. His face is still sheened with sweat, beads trailing down his jaw and into his shirt. Carelessly tugs the collar up to scrub his face clean.
Ghost clenches his fist so tightly, he fears that he might break skin. Cracking his own can open, Soap looks down into the mouth of the can, idly tilting it back and forth. The liquid sloshes gently, spills out ever-so-slightly. He blinks when a drop trails down his hand, brings it up to his mouth to lick it clean a moment later.
God, Ghost aches at the sight of him. He digs his nails deeper and wills Soap to just start drinking.
He does, eventually, lifting the can and tilting his head back sluggishly. It’s not much better, he thinks despairingly; a small stream escapes out of the side of his mouth, gliding down his jaw and the column of his throat. Ghost briefly wonders how it would taste on his skin – the saltiness might suit the sickening sweetness, his mind decides, before the rational part of him catches up.
There's guilt lingering in the back of his throat when he averts his gaze and drinks again. The heat must be getting to him, surely. He exhales slowly, doing his best to focus on anything other than Soap.
The only sources of noise in the room is that of their breathing and the whirring of a fan that is quite possibly on its last legs. The clock keeps ticking, Ghost glances at Soap – the other man is so quiet. It’s uncharacteristic of him. He loves the sun, usually. Thrives in it, as though favour was personally bestowed upon him by the gods of the sun.
Not today though.
The ungodly combination of thick, humid air and heat must be getting to him too, Ghost supposes.
Soap shifts and downs mouthfuls of soda, throat bobbing with it. Ghost can't pull his eyes away; there's something magnetising in every movement of Soap's. It's downright mystifying; he doesn't think he should or could be blamed for staring.
Ghost presses his lips together, tastes salt where sweat has dripped – his chest is tight with something. What exactly that something is, he won't guess. Refuses to.
As if to taunt him, Soap sets the can down and lifts his hands high above his head to stretch, muscles in his arms flexing, back arched. That godforsaken tank top rides up a little more, exposing slivers of sunkissed skin and a jut of a sharp hip bone. Ghost doesn’t want to be caught staring so obviously, but–
Soap was undeniably beautiful.
It would be an insult to not try to etch the picture he makes into the very depths of his mind, he thinks.
And then Soap brings his arms back down, and with it, Ghost's mind back to Earth. Mouth suddenly far too dry, he looks down at the can in his hand, passing it over to the other. He can feel the heat in his very bones, sinking its sharp claws into his flesh – the humid air is pressing down on him relentlessly.
He’s burning up, feverish. Eyes too dry, throat aching, he takes another sip. Downright sickeningly sweet artificial flavouring coats his tongue, settles in the depths of his stomach. It's a decent distraction.
An even better one is the gentle breeze that drifts in through the open window, and Ghost tilts his head back to relish in it, eyes falling shut. It glides over sweat-slick skin, sweet relief from the sweltering heat. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, though, and his eyes flutter open a moment later.
Soap jerks when Ghost meets his gaze. He's not subtle at all, he finds himself thinking, with an alarming amount of fondness. A blush sits high on his cheekbones – from the heat or something else, Ghost doesn't know. Isn't sure if he even wants to.
He doesn't mention it, in the end. It would be hypocritical of him to do so.
"I’m going to die, Ghost," Soap mutters, a couple beats too late to come off as what he’d meant to do. "It's so fucking hot. The heat death of the universe is here, and we're all going to die."
Ghost very kindly does not tell him to stop being so overdramatic, and instead stretches his leg out to lightly kick a stray can towards him. It comes to a stop when it knocks into Soap’s thigh. “Just drink.”
He doesn't argue, simply cracks the can open and downs it greedily. Ghost watches, pausing on Soap's lips when he pulls the can away; they glisten with syrupy soda.
His traitorous heart thrums in his chest.
A soft pink tongue briefly swipes over his bottom lip, chasing lingering sticky sweetness on bitten red lips – a nervous tick Soap couldn't seem to escape. It startles him when Soap speaks, eyes snapping back to Soap’s so abruptly that there’s no way he couldn’t have noticed.
“Isn’t it hot?”
Ghost doesn’t even think that’s a question he needs to answer, but he nods anyway. Soap stares at him, unblinking.
"Take off your mask, then," he says, suddenly, abruptly. Ghost stills, and he adds breezily, “I won’t look.”
Soap flops back onto the ground, turns his head away from Ghost. Waiting. Ghost knows just how patient he can be when he puts his mind to it. He brushes the tips of his fingers against the rolled-up hem of his mask and considers it. The decision comes easier than he thought.
He blames the unforgiving, ungodly heat.
"I'm kicking you out if you turn around," Ghost warns, and is not surprised when Soap agrees instantly. He knows how packed those barracks are, back from when he was a Sargeant. Too many bodies crammed in a too-small room, all exuding warmth like some kind of human heating system – and the smell. God, he can barely suppress a wrinkle of his nose at the mere memory.
He doesn't miss it in the slightest. Warm, humid air hits him as soon as he tugs the mask off, and he runs his hand over his face, wiping away drops of sweat clinging to his skin.
Outside, in the distance, cicadas chirp and the sun keeps beating down, unrelenting heat enveloping everything indiscriminately. The air is thick with humidity, like pushing through warm honey. The heat makes everything blur together, and seconds pass like aeons and nothing at all simultaneously. It all feels too idyllic – a little too dreamlike.
They go quiet once more, and Ghost sighs, attempting to melt into the ground as he watches Soap from the corner of his eye.
Every drop of sweat trailing down Soap's tanned skin nearly undoes him. Every shift and ripple of muscle under sweat-soaked cotton flush against skin is downright sinful. Ghost is obsessed; is stretched taut, skin pulled tight across flesh and bones. A flicker of heat licking just below his ribs.
Desire building, climbing and climbing and climbing. He hopes– he hopes Soap won't look over at him, won't meet his eyes, for that would surely be his undoing. He shuts his eyes, as though that meagre movement might stop himself from imploding, might stop his desire from bubbling over.
Heat death, Soap had said. "Heat death," Ghost echoes quietly, mouthing it more than he says it, running tongue over teeth.
The clock keeps ticking. He prays that rain comes soon.